


homecoming

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Series: moments starting with home [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, Gen, Minor Angst, and also all 3 of these guys can b dicks in their own way, jason has some pretty disorganized thoughts, theres some very liberal curses used so uhh forewarning for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason learns that home means dirty dishes, and coffee cups that remind him of himself and his not-a-team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> was really feelin' RHatO and i wanted to try my hand at writing them. i love this unruly band of misfits. so, so much. so i looked up a prompt and i found something about "three people + mugs" so i figured, why not. crossposted on tumblr.

Jason had considered washing dishes cathartic ever since he could remember. Maybe it was ‘cause his mom—not Sheila; when he said _mom,_ he meant _the mom that hadn’t sold him out to the fucking Joker_ —had always let him help. He’d always wanted to help her where she could, ‘cause she worked so hard to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, and even if Jason was too young to really understand, he knew he wanted to _help_.

So he did.

He washed, she rinsed and dried. She also put them away, mostly ‘cause he couldn’t reach them back when he’d been a little tyke.

And then there had been Alfred, who was more than happy to just use the dishwasher, but—

Even if Jason had been a suspicious little shit and had thought, at first, that he’d never really be welcome at the manor, it was impossible to dislike Alfred. And even if he _had_ disliked him, it still wasn’t fair to stick the old man with the dishes and.

If just to make himself feel useful, to make himself feel like he wouldn’t get kicked out for being lazy, he wanted to help.

So he did.

And so he did now, too, because Roy and Kori were off on some solo mission ( _probably just making out somewhere, the assholes_ ), and that meant he was holding down the fort. Ship. Whatever.

Mostly, it meant he was cleaning.

It had been a while since he’d actually stayed long enough for a safehouse to need cleaning.

Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed in one base for so long. Sure, he’d stayed at some of his safehouses for a week or two, but never for months on end. And when he did stay at safehouses, it was because he _needed_ to. It was because he needed to lie low, or stock up on funds, or go on stake-outs till he found his next target.

He never stayed because he _wanted_ to.

And yet, this?

This Tamaran ship off the coast of Florida? With all the extra room, and all the amazing alien tech, and the weapons and laundry and _all these fucking dirty dishes_ lying around?

If Jason was being honest with himself, this was the closest he’d felt to being home since.

Since…

He shook his head, not allowing himself to finish the thought. That life was—quite literally— _over_. He had a new one, now, and for what it was worth, this was the happiest he’d been in a long time. He had _friends_ , not teammates. They were together because they _wanted_ to be.

Even when Kori and Roy weren’t home—like now—Jason still felt an overwhelming sense of.

Purpose? Maybe, but more like.

More like—

 _Safety_ , except for the constant danger their lifestyle put them in. So it was more of.

Trust?

Happiness?

Jason’s brow furrowed as he scrubbed a plate, trying to force the right word to mind. It was stupid, really. All those damn books he read before he—and the Lazarus Pit had restored his mind, but sometimes little things escaped him, and he couldn’t always remember, and it sucked, but—

 _Belonging_.

Jason closed his eyes and moved to the next dish, the water warm and reassuring against his hands.

It had been a long time, now, since he’d used his safehouses. But he remembered how tidy he’d kept them—how few possessions he’d even kept _in_ them. Only a few were decorated with personal belongings, and even with them, he was planning on clearing them out just as soon as he got some fucking _time_.  

Once, he’d kept his most treasured possessions in an old safehouse on the north side of Gotham. He could barely remember how it felt to value those things— _a batmobile’s wheel and a picture of himself and B_ —above all else. But he still _had_ , and maybe some part of him still did, but.

 _But_.

They had no place _here_.

Not in Kori’s ship. Not with Roy and Starfire and the puzzle pieces of a life they’d built together. Not when they’d made themselves a not-a-team, not when they fit so well together and were exactly what they needed each other to be.

His old life didn’t deserve a damn display shelf.

Jason took a deep breath, willing himself not to get annoyed. Because when he was annoyed, he had a habit of making bad choices, and breaking things, and.

And.

Too late.

A mug was shattered now, and Jason couldn’t remember how and when and why. It was in the sink, not on the ground, so he guessed it had probably slipped from his fingers.

He hated blanking out.

But at least Roy and Kori weren’t here to see it.

Jason turned off the water and busied himself with cleaning the shattered porcelain from the sink. Once everything was clean, he washed the blood off his hands, forcing away invasive thoughts of _don’t think about killing, or how bloody those hands had been after breaking through the coffin_ —

He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes while he forced himself to be still. He’d get a new mug—he could easily get a new mug.

It was just that.

It wasn’t _his_ mug that he’d broken. He didn’t even know whose it was, Roy’s or Koriand’r’s or maybe Goldie’s back from when he and Kori had been a thing, or—

Or.

There was no sense dwelling on it, he decided, unless he wanted to blank out again.

Jason shoved his hands into his pockets and zeta’d out of the ship. It wasn’t like they were hurting for money and, well. If he’d broken something, the least he could do was replace it.

\--

(The mug said ‘sunshine’ with a bright yellow and orange design, and he thought of no one but Koriand’r when he bought it.

But there was one two shelves down with the phrase ‘kiss my arse,’ and it was just. It was _Roy_.

And then, it just—it didn’t feel right. He couldn’t leave without buying one for himself, not without finding yet another new and inventive way to be a third wheel. So he bought one.

It had no words, and no design until the base of the cup. But when he raised it, it showed a middle finger dyed in red, and. He _had_ to have it.)

\--

Neither Starfire nor Arsenal asked about the missing mug or the three replacements, but he knew they noticed them one, because they had an absolutely tiny collection of actual dishes, and two, because they suddenly were always using them. It was just that they _always_ used the wrong ones. Probably just to fuck with Jason.

But after Jason saw Roy giving him a shit-eating-grin above Kori’s mug, Jason decided he didn’t even mind.

It wasn’t like he’d just gotten the mugs for them to use individually.

They were gifts. But not—not _private_ gifts.

This was their home now. All three of them.

And.

He guessed, if he had to put a word to it, what those mugs were, they were homecoming gifts.

Because in his heart of hearts, that’s what this ship was, now. It would never be the Manor, or the shitty apartment he and his mom had lived at, but.

It was home.

And just like the junk lying around—the weapons, the laundry, the fucking dirty dishes—Jason was a part of this place. He was as central to it as the couch that everyone crashed on between missions, and Roy and Kori’s late nights, and shitty movies on Fridays.

He _belonged_.

He didn’t understand the ache in his chest at those words, or the sudden sense of peace. All he knew was that he felt needed and trusted and safe, and.

Home.

-

(Within a few months, the mugs are already in bad condition.

The handle on Roy’s mug has been broken off twice, but glued back together both times. It was Jason’s fault the second time, but not the first, even if he uses it more often than Roy and Kori put together.

Jason’s has burn stains from Kori gripping it with green energy too hot in her palms.

Kori’s has been chipped and almost dropped too often to count. But, time and time again, they’ve saved it at the last minute, and.

Jason can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if art imitates life, or—

Or they’re all just so damn careless with their possessions that it’s no wonder the mugs are already as damaged as them.

He decides he doesn’t care.

Not one of them has been broken yet, not really. Not completely. And he’ll be damned sure it stays that way.)

 

 

 

 


End file.
